Behind The Mask

Chapter 4: The Spider and the Web

POV: Maxwell

I stood alone in the grand foyer, staring at the damp white towel Fiona had dropped on the floor.

The house was completely silent, except for the heavy rain beating against the large glass windows.

Fiona's eyes. I couldn't stop thinking about her dead, empty eyes.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, I raised my hand and touched my jaw.

My mind dragged me backward, pulling me away from the quiet mansion and throwing me back into the loud, flashing chaos of The Velvet Room nightclub.

Three years ago.

My jaw was throbbing.

I sat in the center of the VIP booth, completely stunned. The loud bass of the club music pounded in my ears, but all I could hear was the sharp, echoing smack of her hand hitting my face.

The people around me were frozen. My friends, usually loud and obnoxious, were staring at me in pure horror. The club manager was practically having a heart attack as he dragged the struggling waitress away from my table.

I slowly turned my head and watched her go.

Her name was Fiona. I had heard the terrified manager scream it.

I rubbed my stinging jaw. Women in my world did not hit me. Women in my world smiled, nodded, and did whatever they could to get their hands on my money. They agreed with every word I said. They laughed at my terrible jokes. They bowed to the Jordan name.

But this girl? She had looked at me with pure disgust. She had defended herself without a second thought, not caring that I could buy the entire building and fire everyone in it. She had pride.

And I was going to break it.

The very next morning, I sat behind the massive glass desk in my penthouse office at Jordan Corporation.

My head of security, Marcus, stood formally in front of my desk. He slid a thin manila folder across the polished glass.

"Everything you asked for, sir," Marcus said, his voice deep and strictly professional. "Her name is Fiona Caldwell. Twenty-four years old. No criminal record. Her mother died when she was a child. Her father passed away six months ago from a severe respiratory illness."

I opened the folder. Inside was a photocopy of her ID, showing her bright, hopeful eyes and soft smile. Next to it was a stack of financial documents.

"She is drowning in debt, Mr. Jordan," Marcus continued, pointing to the papers. "Her father's medical bills wiped out what little savings they had. She has no family to rely on. The tips from the club were the only thing keeping her from being evicted from her tiny apartment."

I leaned back in my expensive leather chair, studying the numbers. She was desperate. She was completely alone.

A slow, calculating plan began to form in my mind.

Just two days ago, my grandfather, Arthur, had given me his final ultimatum. Marry a respectable woman, settle down, and prove you are stable, or I will hand the company over to your cousin. I despised my grandfather. I hated that he controlled my life with his wealth. But I wasn't going to lose my empire. I needed a wife. But I refused to marry one of the wealthy, entitled socialites my grandfather kept parading in front of me. If I married a rich woman, her family would meddle in my business. She would demand my time, my affection, and my power.

I needed someone I could completely control.

I looked down at Fiona’s picture again. A desperate girl with no family, drowning in debt. A girl who wouldn't dare demand anything from me if I held the purse strings. A girl who hated me enough that I wouldn't have to worry about the messy, complicated burden of actual love.

She was absolutely perfect.

But first, I needed to make sure she had absolutely no other options. I had to back her into a corner so tight that when I finally offered her a way out, she would take it blindly.

"Marcus," I said, my voice cold and entirely detached. "I want her blacklisted."

Marcus blinked, a rare flash of surprise crossing his stoic face. "Sir?"

"You heard me," I said, closing the folder and folding my hands on the desk. "Call every decent restaurant, bar, hotel, and catering service in this city. Use the Jordan name. Tell them that if they hire Fiona Caldwell, they will lose our corporate accounts forever. Make sure she cannot find a job anywhere."

Marcus hesitated. He was a tough man, but even he knew this was incredibly cruel. "Mr. Jordan, she’s already on the verge of eviction. If we do this, she will have nothing."

"That is exactly the point," I replied smoothly, not feeling an ounce of pity. It was just a game of chess, and she was a piece on the board. "Do it."

"Yes, sir," Marcus said, bowing his head before turning and walking out of the office.

For the next three weeks, I watched her struggle from a distance.

Marcus brought me daily reports. Fiona had applied to over thirty places. Diners, coffee shops, retail stores. Every single one of them had taken one look at her name on the application and suddenly claimed the position was filled.

She was running out of food. She had sold her cheap television and her father's old watch just to pay for electricity. The fire I had seen in her eyes at the club was slowly being snuffed out by the heavy, crushing weight of poverty.

Finally, when my reports said she was two days away from being thrown out onto the street, I sprang the trap.

I called my Human Resources director into my office.

"I need a new personal secretary," I told her. "Send an email to this address. Offer her an interview. Make the starting salary double the market rate. Tell her it includes full health benefits and a signing bonus."

The HR director looked at the scrap of paper I handed her. "Fiona Caldwell? Sir, she has no corporate experience."

"Just send the email," I commanded.

I knew she wouldn't ignore it. A desperate, starving person doesn't ask why a life raft is suddenly floating in the water. They just grab it.

And I was right. Less than an hour later, HR informed me that Fiona had enthusiastically accepted the interview for the very next morning. She had no idea the job was at Jordan Corporation. The email was sent through a blind recruitment agency I owned.

The next day, I sat in my office, feeling like a spider waiting patiently in the center of a perfectly spun web.

I adjusted my expensive silk tie and checked my watch. It was exactly 9:00 AM.

Right on time, my office phone buzzed. "Mr. Jordan," my receptionist's voice came through the speaker. "Your 9:00 AM interview is here."

"Send her in," I said softly, a dark smile pulling at the corners of my mouth.

I stood up and turned around to face the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city. I wanted her to see my power before she even saw my face.

I heard the heavy, double oak doors of my office slowly creak open.

Soft, hesitant footsteps stepped onto the plush carpet.

"Um, hello?" a nervous, sweet voice called out. "I'm Fiona Caldwell. I'm here for the executive assistant interview?"

I took a deep breath, smoothing my expression into a mask of polite, calm authority. I slowly turned around to face her.

Fiona was standing just inside the doorway. She was wearing a cheap, slightly faded black skirt suit that she had clearly bought from a thrift store. She clutched a thin plastic folder holding her resume tightly against her chest, like a shield. She looked exhausted, pale, and incredibly fragile.

Then, her eyes moved up from the floor and landed on my face.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Fiona froze completely. All the blood drained from her face, leaving her as white as a ghost. Her breath caught in her throat with a sharp, audible gasp. Her wide eyes darted around the massive, luxurious office, putting the pieces together. The wealth. The recruitment agency. The sudden, too-good-to-be-true job offer.

She recognized me instantly. I was the man she had slapped. I was the man who had gotten her fired.

The plastic folder slipped from her trembling hands, hitting the floor with a soft slap. Her carefully printed resumes scattered across the carpet.

She took a panicked step backward, reaching blindly for the door handle to run away.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Miss Caldwell," I said, my voice smooth, calm, and dripping with authority.

Fiona froze, her hand hovering over the brass doorknob. She looked back at me, her chest heaving.

"Sit down," I ordered gently, pointing to the chair in front of my desk. "We have a lot to talk about."